Brooding Donimar slouches with melancholic grace into the room. Heads turn, and his exotic eyes - blue, green, grey none can say with certainty - look at them, over them, through them to the horizon beyond sight of the walls. They twitter nervously just some haughty foreign princeling certainly, and his chest begins to swell. A feeling too deep to be a sound builds within him and out a melody haunted with too much knowledge crashes upon the listeners. They stare enraptured forgetting themselves in the vast abyss or finding themselves so very small against the lunar sway pulling this way and that but ever deeper.